My favorite winter boots—you know the brown ones
you said you wished were taller—well,
they make my feet sweat.
I walk home from my parked car and it hits me
just how freaking freezing I now am, how many hours I’ve spent
getting slowly slowly colder from the ground
up. But I’m not really getting
anything, not really, am I? No, what I am is losing
hard-earned heat of my pumped blood
for the sake of some dumb preference for uncomfortable
footwear. By the time I’m at the door I’ve lost so much
heat or ignorance of cold I’m shaking,
drop the keys like matches in that frightening Jack London
story, think, It doesn’t pay to underestimate the strength
of temperature against a human frame. I am
cold. Forgive me when I stumble into our house crying.